Next Contestant
by vanillavinegar
Summary: Collection of one-shots.  This chapter: Lan Fan had sworn to give her life for him.
1. Growing Up in Risembool

**Title: **Promised Joy  
**Author: **vanillavinegar**  
****Rating: **K  
**Summary: **Trisha couldn't wait to grow up. [pre-canon, Trisha/Hohenheim]  
**Disclaimer:** _Fullmetal Alchemist _and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Hiromu Arakawa-san. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others.  
**Author's Notes:** Welcome to my new collection of one-shots, made up of my entries in fma_fic_contest on livejournal! Expect to see a variety of characters and settings. The collection's title is from the song by Nickelback, which has nothing to do with the fics beyond them being entered in a contest. ^_^; This particular fic was written for prompt 96 – 'growing up in Risembool'. Title is from "To a Mouse" by Robert Burns.

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* * *

Risembool was a town – more of a stretch of countryside, really – made up almost entirely of shepherds and farmers. Trisha Elric had nothing against sheep – she thought lambs were adorable and loved mutton – but she didn't want to stay in Risembool forever. There was a whole world out there, and Trisha may have been only eight but she was determined to see it someday. Trisha wasn't sure exactly what she wanted to do out in that wide world, but she would figure something out.

At recess, other children ran around pretending to be knights or alchemists, but Trisha lugged the teacher's atlas to her favorite spot beneath the old oak tree and read all about the places she wanted to go. She'd visit cold, threatening Drachma when she graduated secondary school, and maybe see a battle or two. It might be scary, but she wasn't afraid. Next would be mysterious, exotic Xing. The book said the emperor typically met with no foreigners, but she could find a way around that. Then hot and humid Aerugo, Creta with its oceans and forests – she'd visit them all. She might even write a book about her adventures someday, if they were good enough.

Trisha propped her chin on her folded arms, ignoring the shouts of her classmates. She couldn't wait to grow up and start her travels.

* * *

Ed cooed in her arms, making a grab for her hair. Trisha laughed, tucking it safely behind her ear. She'd have to start pulling it back, with the way Ed had begun reaching for anything that caught his eye. She glanced out the window, where Van was looking from the tangle of rope and wood to the tree branch high above in obvious confusion, and stifled another giggle. Their baby wouldn't be able to use the swing for years but Van was set on building it today.

Her plans had changed as she aged but she hadn't let go of her dreams of traveling, especially with Van's stories about everywhere he'd been. He'd never said it, but Trisha knew he'd try to give her the stars as a necklace if she asked. One day, they would go together to the places she'd studied as a girl – but not for a while yet. Ed was only a baby, and she suspected he'd have a sibling soon. Trisha may have traveled far away from Risembool in her girlhood fantasies but she'd never want her children to grow up elsewhere. Ed and his future sister or brother would have the same gentle, peaceful childhood she'd had – and when they were older, Trisha would take them with her and Van.

She would share her long-awaited adventures with her family.

THE END


	2. Family

**Title: **Worshipping Eris  
**Author:** vanillavinegar  
**Rating: **K+ (for brief language)  
**Summary: **It's good to have the family together. [post-canon, Elrics, Rockbells, and Mei Chan]  
**Warnings: **implied **SPOILERS **for the end of the manga/_Brotherhood_  
**Disclaimer: **_Fullmetal Alchemist _and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Hiromu Arakawa-san. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others.  
**Author's Notes****:** This was written for Prompt 95 at fma_fic_contest – 'family'. Thanks to everyone for reading.

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* * *

"Are you _sure_ that's the right wording, Mei? 'As terrible as the dragon and his roar—'"

"No, no, Mr. Alphonse, 'as _tough_ as the dragon'! It means that the more difficult the task—"

"Look, bean girl, this didn't make any sense the first time you said it and it doesn't make any sense now!"

"It does so! If you would be patient like Mr. Alphonse, Edward—"

"I knew we should have just ordered the official translation from Central."

"Brother, you're not being fair. And if you would listen to Mei's explanation like she's been telling you to—"

"I _am_ listening!"

"Granny, where are the apples you bought in town yesterday?"

"Winry, we're trying to talk here! Could you be quieter?"

"That's pretty rich coming from you, Edward Elric, since you've been shouting instead of talking for the last half hour."

"Oh, shut up—"

"_Brother_—"

_Woof, woof!_

"And go feed Den, Winry."

"Feed her yourself!"

_Clang!_

"Ow! Dammit, woman, are you trying to give me a concussion?"

"Oh, just ignore them, Mei. Now what was this about the dragon's roar?"

"It's very simple, Mr. Alphonse…"

On the back porch, all but invisible to those inside the house, Pinako blew a smoke ring and smiled. It was good to have her grandchildren home again.

THE END


	3. Midnight

**Title: **Teachings of the Parents  
**Author:** vanillavinegar  
**Rating: **K  
**Summary: **The Rockbell women talk shop.  
**Disclaimer:** _Fullmetal Alchemist _and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Hiromu Arakawa-san. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others.  
**Author's Notes: **I hope the technical language doesn't throw anyone too much. On the plus side, I now know way more about the anatomy of the hand than I ever have. Title comes from the _Tinsagu nu Hana_, a traditional song in Okinawa. This was written for prompt 97 at fma_fic_contest – 'midnight'. Thanks to everyone for reading, and special thanks to Queen NekoChan for reviewing.

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* * *

It was late when Winry finally put down the automail hand with a contented sigh. She spared a moment to run her eyes over the fine lines of the metal, noting the smoothness of the supporting screws and how their heads lay flat along the opisthenar. There would be no snagging this hand on fabric or skin. She was especially pleased with the digits; she had managed to shave down the metal 'pads' of the fingers so they were flatter, less rounded, which would make it easier for the client to grasp slippery objects. Ed may have been their most problematic patient, but his particular needs for automail were certainly inspiring.

Winry smiled, satisfied, before a yawn cracked her jaw. She stretched, feeling her back pop, and turned to the clock on the wall. Midnight exactly. She yawned again. Her mouth was dry. Well, stopping to get a glass of water wouldn't hurt, and maybe she could take a fifteen-minute catnap. Her stomach growled as she made her way up the basement stairs, but if she ate now Winry knew her nap would go for much longer than her allotted quarter hour.

Light shone through the kitchen doorway. Winry blinked at it for a moment before realization hit, and she let pride creep into her voice as she entered the room. "I finished the hand already, Granny."

Pinako, sitting at the table, tamped the tobacco in her pipe before sticking the end back in her mouth. "Did you double-check the metacarpophalangeal connectors?"

"Yep!" Winry pulled out a glass from one of the cabinets. "And I did the measuring for the wrist already, so I can start on that without waiting for Ed to wake up."

"Good girl," Pinako murmured approvingly. Winry felt warmth fill her chest as she filled her glass with water. Her grandmother was never overly severe – at least when it came to automail instruction – but she never praised unduly either. Winry gulped the water down, trying not to beam too widely around the lip of the glass. "What are you going to do now?" Pinako went on, leaning over her own notes and marking something off with a pencil.

"Mmmm." Winry wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. "I thought about lying down for a couple minutes, then I wanted to start outlining the wrist."

Pinako puffed out a smoke ring, giving Winry that weighing look out of the corner of her eye. "Come here, girl."

Raising an eyebrow, Winry did as she was told, sitting in the chair her grandmother gestured towards. Pinako leaned forward in her own seat, taking Winry's chin in one hand and moving her head one way, then the other, eyes keen behind her spectacles. "Granny?"

"You need more sleep than just a 'couple minutes,' girl," Pinako said as she released Winry's chin, leaning back in her chair and tapping her pipe decisively.

"Aw, but Granny—"

"But me no buts, Winry Rockbell."

She pouted, flopping onto the table dejectedly. She really wanted to work on that wrist tonight! "Twenty minutes."

"Two hours."

"Thirty minutes."

"An hour and a half."

"Forty-five?"

"One hour and you eat a sandwich before you go upstairs." Winry opened her mouth to haggle some more but Pinako forestalled her with a stern look. "Listen to your grandmother."

"Ugh!" Winry threw her hands into the air. "Fine." She dropped her arms back to the table, folding them and propping her chin on her forearms. Pinako smirked as she returned to her drawings of Ed's old leg, making a few more corrective notes as Winry watched. "Where's Al?"

"Taking Den for a walk, since the weather's pleasant tonight. And don't think you can waste time down here talking, young lady. Go eat your sandwich and take your nap."

"Okay, okay." Winry pushed her luck for another moment or so before standing again and walking over to the pantry. Her stomach growled, louder than before, and she could hear Pinako snicker. She felt her face warming and hoped her grandmother couldn't see the blush. "Um, do we have any ham left?" she asked, sheepish.

"In the icebox," Pinako replied blandly. Winry started to sigh in relief before Pinako added, "I told you before, girl. Your grandmother is always right."

The sigh turned resigned instead. "Yes'm."

THE END


	4. Cold

**Title:** Friendly Encouragement  
**Author: **vanillavinegar  
**Rating:** PG-13 (language, Havoc's libido)  
**Summary:** Havoc gets a pep talk.  
**Warnings:** **Spoilers **for the manga/_Brotherhood_ up through the Promised Day.  
**Disclaimer: **_Fullmetal Alchemist _and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Hiromu Arakawa-san. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others.  
**Author's Notes: **Originally written for prompt 93 at fma_fic_contest on livejournal – "cold".

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* * *

The storm was of that wild kind that made you forget spring was a mere month away. _A long month,_ Jean thought, rolling the cigarette between his fingers idly. Only an idiot would go out in that violent wind and icy rain unless they had to, and he highly doubted anyone would brave the storm just for a trip to Havoc Sundries. But his mother had decided the store was opening today, and when his mother put her foot down _nobody_ crossed her.

But damn was he bored.

He fiddled with the cigarette in his hand again. It wasn't lit (his mother had decreed when he came back home that smoking in the store was strictly forbidden), but he was restless. He was well able to man the register alone, so the others were taking stock of the various warehouses today. Jean sighed. Nobody was going to come in. Might as well take some inventory; at least he could do _something_ useful.

He had just rolled one-handed over to the garden tools, cigarette clamped in his lips, clipboard and pen in his free hand, when the door flew open, bell tinkling frantically. "_Damn_ is it pouring or what?" laughed a vaguely familiar, definitely female voice, its liveliness at complete odds with the rain and wind suddenly rushing inside.

The door slammed shut before Jean could make his way to see the unexpected customer, but the normal greeting rose easily to his lips. "Welcome to Havoc Sundries, what can we do for—" He nearly swallowed the cigarette when he recognized her. "Lieuten—" He shook his head, annoyed with himself. _You're a civilian now._ "Catalina," he substituted, blinking.

"Havoc!" Rebecca Catalina responded brightly, bounding over to him, dark wet curls bouncing. "I was just in the neighborhood, and I saw the sign and thought, hey, I know that name. And here you are!" She sounded terribly self-satisfied.

"It's a long way from Eastern Command in this weather," Jean replied warily. There was a wall between them, the same wall he'd first felt in Central, with the rest of – with the colonel's men. It was that awkward sense of former camaraderie unceremoniously stripped away. He felt cold. "What can I help you find?"

Rebecca – _Catalina_ – maintained her grin. "What, too good to gossip with an old military buddy?"

"I'm retired." At his flat tone, the overt cheerfulness dropped from her features, turning her suddenly brisk and businesslike. She wasn't wearing her uniform, he noted idly. The snug jacket and knee-high boots were very flattering on her. He shook that thought away too. Without invitation, she perched herself on the counter, and Jean forced his gaze from her stocking-clad legs to her face. She glanced around the store, either not noticing or not caring about his wandering eyes.

"The Promised Day is coming," Catalina finally said, her voice low despite the emptiness of the room. "Soon."

Jean rolled the cig along his knuckles, looking away from her. "I'm retired," he repeated.

"I didn't invite you on a parade march," she snapped. Catalina had always had a temper like quicksilver.

"Good, because I couldn't come," Jean said, being intentionally cruel. She flinched. He told himself he wasn't sorry. He'd always known when he was lying to himself.

"That was thoughtless of me," she whispered. Jean didn't acknowledge it, hoping maybe she'd take the hint and leave.

She didn't, of course.

"We're going to be outnumbered and outgunned, Havoc. Everyone knows it."

"So?" Jean asked bitingly. "You think a paralyzed sniper can help? You must really be desperate."

Catalina hopped off the counter and was in his face before he could add anything more, her eyes so full of fire he didn't even attempt to check out how her cleavage looked from this new angle. "So you're useless now that you can't walk, huh? Is that what you think?" She didn't wait for a response. "My great-grandfather was a major in the First Southern Border War." Jean winced; he'd heard horror stories about that war from his own grandparents as a child. "He lost one of his legs there, and automail wasn't so affordable back then. But he took my great-grandma to every single dance he could when he got back, even though he was in a wheelchair too. He helped build their house when she was pregnant with my grandpa. And he died rescuing her and their three sons when that house caught on fire. Half the stories in my family are about things he did _after_ the war. Are you going to tell me he was useless? Are you just going to decide you can't do anything else because you can't walk, or are you going to repay the faith that Riza told me the colonel placed in you? Well, Jean Havoc? What kind of man are you, anyway?"

He stared at her, mouth open. Even though her face was less than two inches away from his, and her speech had left her cheeks attractively flushed and her lovely bosom heaving, he couldn't tear his gaze from her blazing eyes. Their heat melted the cold that seemed to fill his soul so often since he'd left – fled – Central, and he couldn't hold back a burgeoning grin. "Aw," Jean said, scratching the back of his head, "trust me to need a pep talk from a pretty girl to make me stop pitying myself."

Catalina – _Rebecca_ smirked at him, eyes twinkling now instead of burning. "That's a _beautiful lieutenant_ to you, civvie. And I'm too good for you, anyway, Havoc."

Jean shrugged, letting his own eyes blatantly trail up and down her figure. She snickered and punched him in the arm; he tried not to wince. "Then I guess I'll have to take you out to dinner as an apology. But first," and he grabbed his pen again, flipping to a blank sheet in the clipboard before turning the grin back on her, "what _can_ Havoc Sundries do for you – lieutenant?"

THE END


	5. Alphonse

**Title: **I All Alone  
**Author:** vanillavinegar  
**Rating: **K+  
**Summary: **Al at the Gate: "He was not going to fall apart now."  
**Warnings: SPOILERS** for the end of the manga/_Brotherhood_.  
**Disclaimer:** _Fullmetal Alchemist _and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Hiromu Arakawa-san. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others.  
**Author's Notes: **Title comes from Shakespeare's Sonnet 29. This particular fic was written for prompt 98 – 'Alphonse'. Thanks to everyone for reading, and special thanks to Ricorum Scaevola, Sonar, and totaltheTERRIER for reviewing.

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* * *

The first thing Al felt after years living as a suit of armor was nothing.

It probably would make no sense to anyone else, but there was a definite difference between being unable to feel anything and feeling nothing. A world of difference.

And in the Gate, well, there was certainly a lot of nothing for him to feel.

Truth's shadowy silhouette had faded when Brother's arm had. Al wondered whether it was watching him invisibly, or maybe it could somehow keep an eye on the fight he knew was raging between his brother and Father. Anxiety stirred in his mind – and then, wonder of wonders, a physical reaction too – a tugging around his abdomen. Was this what people meant by your stomach being tied in knots?

Al let his curiosity about his newly regained body distract him. He had done all he could for Brother, and fretting wouldn't help. Besides, if anyone could defeat the cruel being that had tried to take the souls of all Amestrians, it was his brother. He had bottomless faith in Ed, and now all he could do was wait.

He flexed one long-fingered hand, then the other. His bones were clearly visible as they shifted beneath his skin, and he remembered how upset Brother had been after he'd seen Al's body in the Gate. Al understood; that was, after all, why he had not joined body and soul when he had come earlier. His fingernails were long, too, ragged and broken as they were. He pressed the pad of his thumb to them one-by-one, idly wondering if he was going to cut himself. He didn't, but he did feel a sharp sensation along with the pressure of nails against his skin. It made him smile.

His skin was so pale, he mused as his attention shifted yet again. Al thought about the way Brother's skin bronzed in the summer, how dark Winry had looked the last time they visited her in Rush Valley. He could vaguely remember sunburns he'd had when he was very young.

"Melanin," he said abruptly, recalling the name of the pigment that determined skin color. Then, shocked to the core, he said it more loudly, "Melanin!" He rolled the vowels on his tongue, enjoyed the way the 'l' felt in his mouth, and snapped out the last syllable with greater force. Al grinned. Speaking was so much more fun when you could feel the words! He began to repeat things he'd heard – a song Mom had sung when they were little, a lecture Winry often gave his brother on maintaining his automail, the Amestrian national anthem, some of his brother's most colorful rants.

Al was taking the word 'pipsqueak' apart into syllables – the pleasant way the p's made his lips pop, the severity of the 'k' at the end – when his throat almost closed. His eyes flew wide as he struggled not to choke, panic welling within him, before his throat relaxed again. _What was that?_He reached up to massage his neck, feeling the pounding in his chest lessen as his heartbeat slowly returned to normal. There was a – a roughness to his throat, kind of like the way the 'k' had felt in his mouth. It was almost like there was something scraping along the inside of his neck…

"Oh," he said aloud, then winced. Right. He had been talking a lot, with nothing to drink for – well, years. His throat was dry. He grinned again at the realization. Not, perhaps, most people's reaction to having a dry throat and no way to assuage it, but this was basically a new experience for him. He found it to be terribly exciting.

But maybe he should do something other than talk for a while.

Al thought, almost unconsciously rubbing his fingers together as he did. He considered trying to stand, but decided he ought to preserve his strength for when Brother came for him. He wasn't sure what would happen then, but it seemed prudent to keep his energy stored up just in case. His muscles did feel – sore, maybe? He felt so much weaker than he could recall ever feeling before. Maybe he could try some of his brother's physical therapy exercises and it wouldn't sap too much of his strength.

Al flexed his hands again, then stretched them out in front of him. He stretched his legs out, too, eying the way his toenails were just as long and tattered as his fingernails. Then he leaned forward to touch his toes with his fingers. Disbelief echoed through him when he was unable to do so. He sat back, blinking, then leaned forward again. He could barely even reach past his knees. For the first time, he comprehended just how atrophied his body really was – it was one thing to see it, even to understand it in a distant sort of way, but entirely another to be able to feel his weakness and compare it to the last time he had flesh.

He swallowed and blinked, reaching up when his eyes felt funny. His fingertips came back wet, and the realization that tears had welled in his eyes stung him out of his distress. He had his body back. Brother was coming for him. So what if he wasn't as strong as he had been four years ago? Muscle could be regained. Al wiped all traces of his tears away. He was not going to fall apart now.

Suddenly something changed. Al was so surprised – could the Gate change? Was that possible? – that he had brought his legs up to his chest defensively before he realized it. He looked back at his doorway, but it still floated impassively behind him. Then he looked across where Truth and his brother's door had been before they disappeared.

There was something there.

Al squinted, trying to make out what it was. He remembered how wavy and insubstantial the desert outside of Liore had appeared, recalled the way his brother spoke of mirages and imaginary oases during his trip to the ruins of Xerxes. It was kind of like that – he could see _something_, but the image was so misty he was unable to make out what. He knew what it was anyway. He was sure of it.

Brother had come for him.

Like a radio being tuned to the right frequency, words slowly started drifting to him. First was "…sure about this?" in Truth's weird, fragmented voice. Next, inquisitively, "ordinary person." Then – Al's heart leapt – "as long as I have them!" in Brother's most decisive tones. Al ducked his head to smile into his arms. As if it, too, felt Al's pride, Truth replied more amiably than Al had ever heard it: "That's the right answer, alchemist." Brother grunting. Truth again, something Al couldn't quite catch, ending with "…Edward Elric."

And slowly the mistiness diminished, leaving no sign of Truth or Brother's doorway. There was just Brother himself, walking slowly toward Al, a smile growing on his lips. He looked exhausted, covered in dirt and blood and – were those tearstains tracking through the dust on his face? Brother hadn't needed to cry. Later, Al would probably be guilty over causing him such grief, but right then all he could feel was a strange, soothing _something_emanating from his chest and spreading right down to his fingertips. Later on he would recognize it as warmth, but right then all he knew was how comforting the sensation was.

He tried to stand. It didn't seem like they would have to fight their way out after all and Al wanted to greet his brother on his feet, but he had overestimated his strength again. He almost fell right back down. But Brother was suddenly there, strong arms – both of them flesh and blood – going under Al's own, supporting him as always. Gold eyes studied his face as though making sure he had the right Alphonse, then Brother smiled. "That was a crazy thing to do, you know?" he said, almost conversationally.

Al giggled. "You too, Brother," he replied, even though he didn't know exactly what had happened after he had broken his bloodseal. Knowing Brother, it was definitely something ridiculous, extreme, and semi-impossible.

Brother helped him turn as his doorway slowly opened. Unlike all the other times Al could remember, it was full not of darkness but of light. They both stared at it for a moment – Brother's arm going around his waist as if to hold Al to him – and then Brother spoke firmly. "Come on, Al. Everybody's waiting for us." Al nodded. Then, together, they stepped through the doorway, letting the light take them home.

THE END


	6. Seamless

**Title: **What Connects Us  
**Author: **vanillavinegar**  
Rating: **K+ (some violent imagery)  
**Summary: **Blood was rarely used in Amestrian alchemy.  
**Disclaimer:** _Fullmetal Alchemist _and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Hiromu Arakawa-san. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others.  
**Author's Notes:** This fic was written for prompt 99, 'seamless', at fma_fic_contest. It won second place that week. Thanks to everyone for reading, and special thanks to Ricorum Scaevola, kalirush, Harryswoman, and Kristen Sharpe (twice!) for reviewing.

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* * *

His brother didn't know it, but Al had studied his bloodseal. The first time he'd seen it – while Ed was still in rehabilitation from his extensive and multiple surgeries – he had been stunned. Had he needed to breathe, it would have taken that breath away. The circle was unbelievably complex – and yet, utterly simple. There were the lines that meant life – there, the long squiggling shape that stood for the soul. That Ed had created it while in such wracking pain – while on the verge of bleeding out – had used his own blood to draw it…

Blood was rarely used in Amestrian alchemy, even in the small and struggling field of medical alchemy. When it used blood at all (which was uncommon), it was always that of the injured, never of the healer. If an alchemist used his own blood and the transmutation failed… Such rebounds were always, always horrible.

His brother knew this. They had studied the same books. Yet he had brought Al back, at the risk of his own life. He hadn't even hesitated. The slight breaks in the bloodseal were points where he'd needed more blood, not marks of uncertainty. In an alchemist's eyes, the circle was perfectly seamless, beautifully done.

Al knew that Ed believed the bloodseal a mark of how much he had failed his brother. But to Al himself, it represented Ed's determination and love. Thus, no matter how guilty Ed felt over his brother's metal form, Al could never regret it.

THE END


	7. Canon Pairings

**Title: **Snug  
**Author: **vanillavinegar**  
Rating: **K+  
**Summary: **Winry's cold. Ed needs a distraction.  
**Warnings: **Implied** SPOILERS **for the end of the manga/_Brotherhood_. Unrepentant, unmitigated fluff.  
**Disclaimer:** _Fullmetal Alchemist _and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Hiromu Arakawa-san. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others.  
**Author's Notes:** This fic was written for prompt 100, 'canon pairings', at fma_fic_contest. Thanks to everyone for reading, and special thanks to totaltheTERRIER and Ricorum Scaevola for reviewing.

Write a review, get a response from the author – promise! :)

* * *

Winry woke to rain falling on the roof and a cold bed. "Ed?" she murmured groggily, reaching out to her husband's pillow. Nothing met her searching hand and she sat up, blinking in the semi-darkness of their room. "Ed?" Faint footsteps suddenly sounded from the stairs. She waited, rubbing at the goosebumps that sprouted across her exposed arms. "Where'd you go?" she asked when Ed's silhouette appeared at the door.

"To get a blanket," he replied, holding it up for her approval. "Did you miss me that much?" he asked, and Winry could nearly hear his smirk.

"I was cold," she said, tossing her head.

"Right." He sat down on the edge of their bed, placing the blanket next to him.

Winry smacked him – lightly – on the arm. "Arrogant," she muttered, and Ed turned to grin at her. She rested her chin on his bare shoulder as he bent to massage his left thigh. "Is something wrong with your leg?"

He shrugged, jostling her head. "Rain makes my port ache sometimes," he said softly, not meeting her eyes

Winry sat back, biting her lip. She had forgotten about the rain, but now – as if in response to Ed's comment – the sound of the storm outside seemed to increase. Ed shifted his shoulders uneasily. Making up her mind, Winry grabbed at his blanket and spread it over the bed. "Come here," she ordered, lying back against their pillows and holding the covers up for him.

Ed hesitated for a moment, then slowly slipped in next to her. Winry settled the blankets around them before turning and lifting his arm up so she could cuddle into his side, tucking his arm back around her neatly. "W-winry?" he stammered.

She could feel his skin heat up as he flushed. _Married for almost four months, and sometimes he still acts like he's fifteen_, she thought, smiling_._ "I'm cold, remember?" Judging from the skin under her cheek, Ed's blush only worsened. She didn't bother stifling a giggle. "Keep blushing, it makes you warmer."

The arm holding her briefly tightened its embrace. "Freak." But he dropped a kiss to the top of her head all the same, and sooner than she had expected his breathing became deep and even.

"Love you, too," Winry whispered to his slumbering form. She rested her head on his chest, shifting to a more comfortable position, before closing her own eyes, returning to her dreams.

THE END


	8. Web

**Title: **The Fly in the Web  
**Author: **vanillavinegar**  
Rating: **K+ (creepiness, some violent imagery)  
**Summary: **"By the time the fly sees the web, it's already too late." -old Amestrian proverb  
**Warnings: SPOILERS **for Pride's identity and through the Briggs arc.  
**Disclaimer:** _Fullmetal Alchemist _and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Hiromu Arakawa-san. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others.  
**Author's Notes:** Takes place during episode 32 of _Brotherhood_, which is slightly different from the equivalent chapter 64 of the manga. This fic was written for prompt 104, 'web', at fma_fic_contest. It won third place that week. Thanks to everyone for reading, and special thanks to Kristen Sharpe (twice, again!), silverymoon19, and Gisel0202 for reviewing.

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* * *

_By the time the fly sees the web, it's already too late._  
_-Old Amestrian proverb  
_  
Pride likes spiders.

He is not jealous of them, of course, nor does he admire them. Such lesser emotions have no place within him. He is a homunculus, the first that Father ever created. He is, as Father himself has said, perfect.

But he still likes spiders.

Such small, insignificant lower life forms, yet they are also a most crafty and effective predator.

He enjoys that.

He senses the Fullmetal Alchemist's unease. Pride laughs, amused – does the boy feel pity? Does he wonder, as Roy Mustang had, how horrified the poor wife and adopted son of a homunculus would be if they discovered the fuhrer's true identity?

Wrath pats his head, the image of a doting parent, then stands to leave, issuing one last, barely-veiled threat towards their leashed alchemist. Subtlety has never been one of Wrath's strengths. The boy stares after him, trembling – with fear or with rage? His brother hides his feelings with greater success, but then Alphonse Elric is a suit of armor. Pride's spiders are more expressive.

The two linger uncomfortably until his mother notices the time and apologizes for keeping them so late. Pride plays up the eager young boy act – after so many centuries, it comes quite easily to him – jumping and waving after them. They hesitate for a moment, sorrow once again present on the elder's face, before he darts off, shouting about leaving for the north.

Pride snickers. The fool boy doesn't even realize how loudly he has announced their plans. His mother makes some vapid comment about how pleased he must be to have met his idol, and he agrees vaguely.

So. Their sacrifices are going north, are they? Briggs is the last point on Father's circle, the only one yet to be soaked in human blood. Envy has been making noises about sending the Crimson Alchemist there, but perhaps they will find some other occupation for him and use the north to break Edward Elric's spirit instead.

Pride's brief smile is sharp and cruel. Like the fly in the old saying, the Fullmetal Alchemist will not see their web until it is too late.

THE END


	9. Turn a Cliche on Its Head

**Title: **Ordinary  
**Author: **vanillavinegar**  
Rating: **K+ (language, creepiness)  
**Summary: **Ed and Al visit a perfectly normal, quiet town. No, really. No, _really_.  
**Disclaimer:** _Fullmetal Alchemist _and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Hiromu Arakawa-san. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others.  
**Author's Notes:** This fic was written for prompt 105, 'turn a cliché on its head', at fma_fic_contest. In case it wasn't obvious from the summary alone, my cliché is the one where the Elrics visit a town, find something's up, defeat a bad guy, yadda yadda. Thanks to everyone for reading, and special thanks to FullmetalFan870, Ricorum Scaevola, and totaltheTERRIER for reviewing.

I'm having some difficulties with the document manager, so if any of this appears weirdly formatted please let me know!

Write a review, get a response from the author – promise! :)

* * *

"What's the name of this hole in the wall, again?" Ed grumbled, hopping off the train onto the platform.

"Insolitum, brother. And that's not a very nice thing to say – you could offend some of the locals," Al scolded.

Ed looked pointedly around the tiny station. "_What_ locals?" The station was deserted but for the two of them. _If you call twenty feet of platform, a roof, and a one-man ticket booth a station._ At the other end of the platform, a conductor and engineer exited the train, arguing heatedly.

"A _three hour_ delay? Are you insane? We're due in East by nine!" the conductor exclaimed.

The engineer stared down his nose at the shorter man. "I guess you'll be pushing it then, because we're not going anywhere until the boiler's fixed."

Ed turned away as the conductor shouted again. "I'm starved. Let's see if there're any _locals_ running a bakery or something." Al followed, mentally sighing as Ed skidded to a halt past the ticket booth. He glanced down one side of the street, then up the other, counting. "Wha— _eight_ buildings on the main road? Does anybody actually live here?"

"Less than fifty people in town," Al piped up helpfully. "Maybe as many more in the countryside, but the soil is too hilly for much farming and too chalky for pasture. It's not even good mining country, so the place stays small."

Ed twitched visibly at the word "small" but gave his brother a dubious glance instead of ranting. "And exactly how do you know all that?"

Even his armor's metallic echo couldn't mask Al's smugness. "Just because you always sleep on trains doesn't mean I don't do anything, brother. Sometimes I like to know about the places we're passing."

"Yeah, whatever," Ed muttered, hitching his coat farther up his shoulders as he started walking down the road. "So _is_ there a place to eat around here?"

"Hungry, are we, young master?" said a cheerful voice right next to them, making Ed jump. Clearly not in the least put off by Ed's scowl, the man smiled brightly. "Only one place to go here if you're hungry."

"Oh, yeah? Where's that?" Ed asked, suspicions fading at the prospect of food.

"Brother," Al remonstrated softly.

"What? He offered," Ed replied indignantly.

The man chuckled. His teeth were very white. "So I did, young sir, so I did. Come," he said, putting an arm around Ed's shoulders. Ed stiffened at his touch; the man didn't notice, keeping up a steady stream of talk as he hustled them along. "I know our city probably seems like a little thing to you – you boys have the look of travelers – but size doesn't affect quality, I always say! And the Barn is the _best _restaurant in East, if you'll pardon my saying so – just the thing for growing boys!"

Al wilted as the man continued, teeth flashing in the sun. Al could see his brother's back seizing up at every word; he wouldn't have been surprised if steam poured out of Ed's ears. But the man's chatter was relentless, not allowing Ed an opportunity to explode, until he flung open the door of the 'Barn', an unassuming red building. As they stepped in, the man fell silent. Ed breathed in – Al wished he had ears to cover – and then Ed relaxed, his eyes widening as he took another deep breath. _It must smell very good_, Al thought, watching his brother's eyes glaze over.

A pretty dark-haired woman had looked up as they entered. "Welcome," she giggled as Ed zoomed over to the counter, staring past her into the kitchen. "Someone's hungry!"

"Yes, please," Ed said, still ogling the food behind her. "Uh, what's that smell?"

As his brother talked with the proprietor, Al glanced at the man who had brought them here. He hadn't moved from the door, eyes glued to the woman at the counter – or was he staring at Ed? Uneasiness stirred in Al's mind. "Um," he began. The man turned to him, grinning once more.

"Your pardon, your pardon! I'm in your way, aren't I?" he laughed. Al suddenly realized that broad smile didn't touch his eyes. The man moved aside, and Al walked to his brother's seat at the counter. The plate in front of him was already half-empty; Al looked hurriedly away, grossed out by Ed's ravenous appetite.

"And for you, young man?" the woman asked.

_Do these people ever stop smiling?_ Al wondered. "N-no thanks, I ate on the train." The man was still staring, and now the woman was, too. Al hunched his shoulders, armor clanking. He wished that Ed would notice something, so he wouldn't feel so paranoid. These people had only invited them to a restaurant and fed them. The town probably had few visitors. As employees, of course they'd be anxious to bring in guests however they could. Right? They'd hardly shown any signs of attacking them. He was just too used to finding danger everywhere.

Right?

Ed sighed, pushing the sparkling plate away. "That was delicious." He patted his stomach.

Still standing by the door, the man leaned forward. His eyes glinted eerily. The pretty woman opened her mouth, her own eyes raven-sharp. "Thanks-for-the-meal-it-was-nice-to-meet-you-bye!" Al said rapidly, dropping too many cens on the counter and grabbing Ed's arm.

"Wha—Al—"

Al ignored his protests and the dark expression on the smiling man's face, practically dragging his brother back to the station.

"What the hell, Al?" Ed snapped as Al released him.

"Brother, I'm going to fix the boiler and we're going to leave."

"What's your problem? Can't wait for Colonel Bastard to yell at me?"

Al shifted, uncomfortable beneath his brother's bewildered gaze. "Didn't you – don't you think they were a bit… creepy?"

"Why, because they fed me?" Al looked down. Ed sighed, waving one hand dismissively. "Ah, whatever. Fine, let's fix the train. Just don't go nuts on me again, all right?"

Too relieved to be abashed, Al replied, "Okay, brother."

[_insolitum oppidum_: Latin for eerie town]

THE END


	10. Stoic

**Title: **All in a Day's  
**Author: **vanillavinegar**  
Rating: **T (violence, gore)  
**Summary: **"He's a hard one, Major Mustang."**  
Warnings:** SPOILERS for Ishval. Please also note the rating.**  
Disclaimer:** _Fullmetal Alchemist _and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Hiromu Arakawa-san. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others.  
**Author's Notes:** This fic was written for prompt 108, 'stoic', at fma_fic_contest. It won first place that week. Sorry about the lack of update last week – I was out-of-state and without reliable internet at the time. Thanks to everyone for reading, and special thanks to Kristen Sharpe and Ricorum Scaevola for reviewing!

Write a review, get a response from the author – promise! :)

* * *

_Snap._

A house, shabby but still habitable, suddenly becomes a furnace. The people attempting to find refuge within it flee, only to be shot down. Wild-eyed survivors panic, some rushing the soldiers while others leap through the flames back into the house.

_Snap._

The furnace becomes a bonfire. The roar of the flames buries the wild shrieking; hollow crashes echo as the house collapses from the inside. The soldiers beside him whoop with triumph as the last Ishvalan in sight falls, clothes reduced to little more than rags from the bullets that ripped through him.

Roy does not join them. This is not the last block on their extermination list for today, much less the last house. There is no reason for celebration.

_Snap._

"Did you see the major's face?"

"Cold as ice, him."

"Wish I could say the same!"

Laughter.

"No, man, really. Doesn't anything bother him?"

"You kidding? Nothing touches him!"

"One time this Ishvalan got within two feet of him. Little rat had a knife, but the major didn't even blink – just took him out, _bang_, like it was nothing."

"He's a hard one, the major."

"Glad he's on our side!"

_Snap._

It doesn't matter that guilt is surging up his throat, clawing at him from the inside, that his stomach churns with nausea. It doesn't matter that he still doesn't know why he has become an instrument of death, why he has abandoned the oath of protection common to alchemists and soldiers in favor of destruction.

_Snap._

Smoke stings his eyes. The sun and the fires he has summoned himself blister his skin. Half-melted flesh spatters his uniform, the smell of singed hair sears his nose, charred bones crunch beneath his feet.

_Snap._

They say nothing touches him. His face remains carefully blank.

Only his eyes – filled with a horror made of the constant refrain of _why_– give him away, but few notice them.

_Snap._

He squares his shoulders, marching on.

There is more work yet to be done.

_Snap._

THE END


	11. Yoki

**Title: **Just Once  
**Author: **vanillavinegar**  
Rating: **K+ (brief language, very mild violence)  
**Summary: **Bravery gets you killed. Yoki knows this.  
**Warnings:** **SPOILERS** through to chapter 93 of the manga/episode 52 of _Brotherhood_.**  
Disclaimer:** _Fullmetal Alchemist _and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Hiromu Arakawa-san. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others.  
**Author's Notes:** This fic was written for prompt 114, 'Yoki', at fma_fic_contest. It won third place that week. Can you believe Yoki isn't a choice on the character drop down list? Thanks to everyone for reading, and special thanks to Remniscent Shadow, totaltheTERRIER, Kristen Sharpe, and Ricorum Scaevola for reviewing!

Write a review, get a response from the author – promise! :)

* * *

Yoki was a miserable wretch of a coward, and he knew it.

He didn't much care, either. He'd known many a fellow soldier who walked into Ishval and rode back on a train, in a body bag.

Bravery got you killed.

So he jumped at Captain Manson's offer to train him up to be his replacement as the officer-in-command at Youswell. The mining community was not very prosperous – not very big – not very important, but Yoki didn't care about any of that if it kept him off the front lines. Besides, he had ideas for how to improve Youswell, and after Manson's heart attack and Yoki's subsequent promotion to lieutenant, he had the authority to implement them. Not that it lasted long.

Afterwards, he wondered what exactly had possessed him to follow the man called Scar. He'd just seen the mad Ishvalan explode the head of one man and tear apart another's arm, after all – but was staying in the tiny Ishvalan slum after he'd betrayed their trust any better? Yoki could see the anger in their eyes, and he didn't shy away from admitting that he was frightened of what they'd do to him. The Ishvalan terrorist had shown no indication that _he_, at least, was out for Yoki's blood, and surely he'd appreciate a servant. Yoki had never minded being a kiss up if it got him somewhere, and right then living in the slum had gotten him nowhere.

Of course, he hadn't bargained on getting caught up in a ridiculously far-fetched scheme to save the country from an apparently immortal, inhuman… thing. Some days he woke up and hoped it was all a fever dream, that he was really safe in his mansion at Youswell – only to see the sunrise glinting off Alphonse Elric's armored body (and he'd never really received an understandable explanation for _that_, either) or find the little Xingese girl's carnivorous cat gnawing at his toes. Some nights he couldn't even sleep for fear he'd wake to yet more storybook terrors coming to life and trying to eat them all. The knowledge that someone from this odd group kept a watch every night to prevent that very thing didn't help.

And when he and Marcoh eavesdropped on those soldiers in Kanama, he certainly didn't plan on risking his own life, no matter what crazy ideas Marcoh was hatching.

But when he saw the people who had, despite everything, become his friends, in deadly peril from a maniac and a monster, Yoki somehow found himself sliding into the driver's seat of the solders' car. He didn't want to die – but he knew that if Kimblee and Pride killed Alphonse and Marcoh and, hell, probably even Heinkel, there'd be no hope for the entire country.

So he slammed his foot onto the gas, howling – not a brave war cry, but a shriek of disbelief and terror – as he yanked the wheel to the right, slamming the car into the creepy, shadow-wielding freak of nature.

Unstoppable tears prevented him from seeing the homunculus fly into the air, but later he would remember the glorious _thunk_ as the car hit it, and the disbelief in Marcoh's voice as he exclaimed, "I never thought you would come!"

"I couldn't let you guys have all the glory!" Yoki blustered around his tears. "I deserve to look cool once in a while, too!"

THE END


	12. Romance

**Title: **Sweet Talk  
**Author: **vanillavinegar**  
Rating: **T (married couple on their honeymoon)  
**Summary: **Neither of them had ever really learned how to flirt, but it wasn't like they had the patience for it anyway.**  
Warnings:** Implied **SPOILERS** for the end of the manga/_Brotherhood_.**  
Disclaimer:** _Fullmetal Alchemist _and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Hiromu Arakawa-san. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others.  
**Author's Notes:** This fic was written for prompt 117, 'romance', at fma_fic_contest. Thanks to everyone for reading, and special thanks to Kristen Sharpe, Ricorum Scaevola, Sonar, and totaltheTERRIER for reviewing!

Write a review, get a response from the author – promise! :)

* * *

"…_and even though I still kind of wish you'd come to Xing, I understand. When you're on your honeymoon, the only foreign locale you want to explore is— _Hey! Alphonse." Ed glared down at the letter as if his absent brother could feel it.

From the foot of the bed, Winry giggled without changing position, and Ed's glare shifted to her. He couldn't maintain it, though, not when she was flat on her back in their bed, rumpled sheets piled around and over her, hair tangled about her head. She looked as if she had bathed in sunlight. One of her feet hovered in the air, holding steady while she sketched her ankle. The other rested comfortably on Ed's chest, toes occasionally twitching as she thought.

He let Al's letter drop to the ground, leaning back against the bed's high headboard. They had chosen to honeymoon on a beach in Aerugo – Winry had never seen the sea, and Ed had spent too much time in Rush Valley to be much bothered by sand in his knee joint. Not that Winry ever let it stay there overnight, despite his protests that they were on vacation and work could wait.

But Winry was still Winry, despite the change of her last name. The moment he'd mentioned something about how perfect her ankles were (it was a stupid compliment, in retrospect; he'd realized that the second it left his mouth, even if it was true), she had grabbed her notebook, determined not to let an opportunity to study anatomy slip by. No matter that it was her own anatomy, or that there were others – namely her husband – who would be more than happy to help her study—

He flushed at his own trail of thought, despite the fact that they were both lounging in bed, bare as the day they were born. "Winry," he said instead, drawing out the vowel in a plea for attention.

"When I'm done, Ed," she replied, twisting her foot for a better angle.

He took a moment to admire the crease between her brows, wondering if she knew how attractive he found her when she was giving her full concentration to something. Then he picked up the foot that still lay on his chest and brought it to his lips.

Winry shivered as he pressed one feather-light kiss to her big toe, then to the second. "Ed," she said in a very different tone.

He kissed her middle toe. "What?" he asked, all innocence. He kissed her fourth toe.

"I—" Winry started. He kissed her littlest toe, letting it linger before drawing back and meeting her wide-eyed gaze. Then he began to massage her foot. _"Oh,"_ she hummed, arching her back. The notebook fell from her hand to the floor; she didn't appear to notice. Ed smirked, triumphant, as he moved to pull her toward him, but Winry pushed him back with her foot. "Finish what you've started," she chided, waving it in front of his face meaningfully.

"I'm _trying_ to," Ed countered irritably.

"Foot rub? Please?" He continued to scowl at her from around her foot and she poked out her bottom lip, batting her eyelashes up at him. He knew she could sense him crumbling in the face of that look. "Foot rub now, sex after?" she offered baldly, and Ed eagerly grabbed at her foot.

"Anything for you, dear," he said, grinning stupidly, and she laughed.

"Always the charmer, Ed."

THE END


	13. Song Lyrics

**Title: **Return for Grace  
**Author: **vanillavinegar**  
Rating: **K  
**Summary: **It's the first time it's rained since the Promised Day.  
**Warnings:** **SPOILERS** for the end of the manga/_Brotherhood_.  
**Disclaimer:** _Fullmetal Alchemist _and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Hiromu Arakawa-san. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others.  
**Author's Notes:** This fic was written for prompt 120 at fma_fic_contest, where the instructions were to incorporate song lyrics into your fic. Song used is "Beautiful Day" by U2. Pure brotherly fluff. Don't say I didn't warn you. Thanks to everyone for reading, and special thanks to silverymoon19 for reviewing!

Write a review, get a response from the author – promise! :)

* * *

Al woke, slow and lazy as he turned to the window – he had cajoled his brother into leaving the shade up, even at night; he liked to be woken by the warmth of the sunrise – and found that the gentle tapping he had faintly registered was the sound of droplets hitting the glass.

"It's raining," he breathed. He glanced at the other bed. Ed was sound asleep, chest moving regularly in time with his breaths. Al grinned and silently rolled out of bed.

This early, no one in the hospital was looking out for patients who should have still been sleeping. Not that they would have stopped him, exactly, but they would have told him to use a wheelchair, or wait for someone to carry him, or just rest again today. Al didn't want to wait for someone else and he definitely didn't want to spend all day in bed, so he carefully snuck past the nurses' station on his way to the stairs.

At some point since the last time he had been to the roof, the hospital had installed a little covered patio there. Probably for smokers, he thought, remembering Doctor Knox. He settled onto the bench gingerly; the metal was still cold from the night and his thin hospital gown was poor protection.

Thunder rumbled moodily in the distance. The steel-gray clouds rested over his head. The rain slowed as he sat watching it, but didn't stop. From his perch atop the hospital, he could see cars splashing through the water in the concrete street down below. Dark circles of fabric - umbrellas – marked people weaving their way to work. On the horizon, he dimly made out a pale growing light – the sun trying to break through the clouds.

Al pulled his legs up to his chest, resting his chin on his knees. It was so peaceful up here; the only sounds were that of the rain, and someone stomping through the puddles nearby. He blinked, looking around to find his brother ducking under the patio roof.

"You're going to catch a cold," Ed grumbled in time with another groan of far-off thunder. He dropped a blanket unceremoniously around Al's shoulders and squeezed water out of his ponytail.

"It's the first time it's rained since the Promised Day," Al whispered.

Ed gnawed at his lip, but plopped down next to him after a moment. "Yeah," he said simply.

"It's a beautiful day."

Ed rolled his eyes. "What are you talking about? Sky's falling."

"It's a beautiful day," Al repeated. "I didn't want to let it get away."

"Don't be stupid. There'll be plenty more rainy days." But Ed sat and let Al lean slightly into his warm, sturdy side, until the doctors came looking for them both, scolding them for going out without jackets or umbrellas or even shoes.

And when Al simply snuggled pointedly into his blanket, Ed laughed and threw an arm around his shoulders.

It was a beautiful day.

THE END


	14. Sibling Rivalry

**Title: **Squabble  
**Author: **vanillavinegar**  
Rating: **T (general creepiness)  
**Summary: **Wrath has a proposal for his siblings.  
**Warnings:** **SPOILERS** through to chapter 70 of the manga/_Brotherhood_ episode 37.**  
Disclaimer:** _Fullmetal Alchemist _and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Hiromu Arakawa-san. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others.  
**Author's Notes:** This fic was written for prompt 122, 'sibling rivalry', at fma_fic_contest. It won third place that week. I use 'he' throughout to refer to Envy for simplicity's sake, but I don't believe 'he' has any real recognizable gender. There's probably a better way to signify this. Thanks to everyone for reading, and special thanks to kalirush, silverymoon19, Sylvera, and MoonClaimed for reviewing!

Write a review, get a response from the author – promise! :)

* * *

Wrath had called the meeting today. Wrath, the youngest of all of them – and the most stuck-up besides Pride – had dared to call them all down to Father's chamber, saying he had 'an important question'. And Father hadn't called him down for his presumption – no, worse! – he had enforced Wrath's request that they all come.

Envy, still annoyed at the recent end of the Ishvalan massacre, sneered as he looked around. Well, at least he could take comfort that not everything had gone Wrath's way. Sloth never made it to family meetings anymore – still working on Father's circle, as he had been for years. Pride might or might not have been present; Envy was inclined to believe that the room's shadows were not all natural. And the absence of Greed was obvious, but as usual no one dared comment on it. If Father knew where he was, he hadn't shared it with his children, and Envy had no idea where their rogue brother could've disappeared to. For all Envy cared, Greed might as well have fallen into a hole and stayed there.

Wrath stood like a statue, as if _he _were not the reason they had all gathered in the first place. His visible eye was closed. He might've been asleep, but Envy was not stupid enough to think so. Most likely he was watching them all with his Ultimate Eye.

Beside him, Lust examined her nails, looking bored. Gluttony was devouring something oozing and disgusting on her other side, making horrible noises while he was at it. "Could you keep it down, Gluttony?" Envy snarled, after several more minutes passed and none of them made a move to get on with this waste of time. "Geez."

Gluttony paused, lower lip trembling as he stared up at Lust. She sighed, flicking an impatient look at Envy, and said soothingly, "You can eat however you want to, Gluttony." He mumbled something that could have been "Yay!" as he returned to his meal.

Envy seethed. Now Lust was against him, too? He opened his mouth to snap something appropriately scathing.

"Enough," Father said shortly from his chair. Envy closed his mouth, rolling his shoulders irritably. "Now. Wrath. Why have you called us here?"

Envy was hard-pressed to keep silent then. Even Father didn't know what Wrath wanted, and he still let Wrath dictate their actions like they were some of his soldiers? He, Envy, had never been allowed so much control.

"_Would_ you relax?" Lust murmured as Wrath strode forward, clasping his hands behind his back, for all the world like he was addressing his stupid _human_ underlings. "You won't win any points from Father by acting like a spoiled child."

"Thank you, Father," Wrath said then, inclining his head to where Father still sat, expressionless. "I have a question for everyone here that may prove to be an opportunity for us, if you think so." Envy rolled his eyes at the blatant sycophancy. "My wife has spoken of having children for several years, and now the Ishvalan War is over, she thinks it would be an excellent time for us to have a family." The last words were said wryly as he surveyed them all. "Obviously, though, we have been unable to have children—"

"No, really?" Envy interrupted, unable to hold it in. Lust smirked, glancing back down at her nails. There was a quiet susurration from the shadows – so Pride _was _there.

Wrath nodded slightly. "Yes," he went on, "so my wife has had the idea that we might adopt a child. I thought it might be useful if the child was one of my… relatives." He let them mull that over for a moment.

"Would it be worth our while, Wrath?" Father said, face still impassive – what Envy could see of it, anyway. "You are already present there."

"I believe it would, Father. For much of the time, I am engrossed in the petty dealings of the human government and military. There would be a benefit to having another pair of eyes – or more – there."

A shadow, all toothy grins and mocking eyes, peeled up from the ground near Wrath's feet. Envy was mildly disappointed when Wrath didn't so much as twitch. "You mean me, I take it?" came Pride's hissing voice.

"I do. It would make your task of watching over the senior staff and keeping them in line that much easier were you to have a legitimate—"

"I don't believe this!" Envy burst out. Lust hissed a warning at him, but he ignored her. "If you need someone to infiltrate and keep up a disguise among the humans, why not me?"

Wrath turned to him. "Pride already has the form of a human child," he said evenly. Envy never understood how he could keep his temper so in check. "It would be wasteful to—"

"Wasteful? It's _wasteful_ not to allow me to do what _I_ do – what I can do better than all of you! Give me one good reason why Pride should go and not me!"

"Because Pride can keep calm in stressful situations," Father broke in coolly. "I believe you've aptly demonstrated your unsuitability for this job today, Envy."

Envy gaped, hands curling into completely impotent fists. Pride's rustling laughter sounded again from the shadows curled around the room, and Envy growled. _"Shut up," _Lust whispered. He glared at her, but let her pull him back.

"What would you need to effect this adoption, Wrath?" Father went on, ignoring Envy as if the homunculus had never spoken.

"Legal forms, Father – birth certificates, approvals of the adoption, proof that he is a relative of the Bradleys, that sort of thing."

"I can provide those," Lust spoke up, her fingers still tight on Envy's wrist. "I know someone who would gladly draw up those forms for me, if I asked nicely." A pointed grin played on her lips; Envy snatched his arm away, disgusted.

"Good." Father paused for a moment, thoughtful. "The Promised Day is not far off." Everyone present froze, even Pride's shadows. That was the first time Father had mentioned the proximity of the Promised Day since the creation of Wrath decades earlier. "I trust that you will all be ready when that time comes. Pride, Wrath, you will stay so that we may discuss these things. I will speak with Lust tomorrow about what we have decided."

"You're an idiot," Lust said after they had left the lair. Envy glowered at her. "You are." She shrugged her coat back on as they entered the elevator that would return them to Central Command. Sparks shot up and down Envy's arms as he fought not to transform and crush her. She threw them a casual glance. "Oh, please do attack me. Like Father needs another excuse to melt you down."

Envy smothered the temptation. "Father wouldn't do that."

"He might if you keep annoying him." She reached forward and pressed a few buttons, patting Gluttony's head absently. "If you keep reminding him that you're an impatient, jealous infant, he definitely will."

"Lust," he said warningly.

"I'm only trying to help you work on your anger management," she replied, unworried. "Leave the temper tantrums to Wrath." The doors opened and she stepped out, adjusting the collar of her coat. Gluttony ambled after her. "I'm serious, Envy. If the Promised Day really is that soon, Father will want the most useful pawns he can, and that includes us. If you still want to be here then, try being more helpful, not less."

"Whatever," Envy muttered, and the doors closed on her smirk. He scowled, even though she couldn't see it, and changed smoothly into one of the myriad soldiers he'd seen around the command center. "It should still be me and not Pride," he said rebelliously as the doors opened again, and plunged into the mass of uniformed figures.

THE END


	15. Forbidden Love

**Title: **Opportunity  
**Author: **vanillavinegar**  
Rating: **K+  
**Summary: **Everyone has regrets. This is Grumman's.  
**Warnings:** **SPOILERS** only if you don't know who Grumman's granddaughter is.**  
Disclaimer:** _Fullmetal Alchemist _and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Hiromu Arakawa-san. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others.  
**Author's Notes:** This fic was written for prompt 123, 'forbidden love', at fma_fic_contest. Thanks to everyone for reading, and special thanks to Ricorum Scaevola for reviewing!

Write a review, get a response from the author – promise! :)

* * *

I had disliked that Hawkeye boy from the beginning. I'd known too many alchemists to entrust my daughter to one; the only lasting love in an alchemist's life was alchemy. Amelia would only get hurt when she realized it.

"_It's either your family or that boy." _My mistake: Amelia was too stubborn to give in – and, later, to retract a decision already made.

I learned about her death from the obituaries in the newspaper. _He_ refused further communication with me except for a photo, years later: a young, solemn girl with my daughter's bright hair and _his_ dark eyes. _Her name is Riza_, said the handwriting on the back. _I haven't told her about you.  
_  
I had been a grandfather for five years. I hadn't even known.

I was stunned when I saw her name on the list of Ishval vets assigned to Eastern Command. Her CO was a State Alchemist, a war hero whom everyone agreed was going places. Mustang was crafty and ambitious, traits I approved of in an officer. I took him under my wing, and I saw the way he and my granddaughter didn't acknowledge what was so obvious to my eyes.

I'd been given a second chance, and I wasn't going to make the same mistake I had with Amelia.

"So, lieutenant colonel," I said, easily taking his bishop with my queen, "when are you going to make my granddaughter your First Lady?"

In time, his spluttering, confused denials gave way to silent, knowing smirks.

THE END


	16. Study

**Title: **Written History  
**Author: **vanillavinegar**  
Rating: **K+  
**Summary: **There's a room in the Elrics' house that belonged to Hohenheim.  
**Warnings:** Implied **spoilers **for Hohenheim's backstory.**  
Disclaimer:** _Fullmetal Alchemist _and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Hiromu Arakawa-san. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others.  
**Author's Notes:** This fic was written for prompt 133, 'study', at fma_fic_contest. Thanks to everyone for reading, and special thanks to GeneralGeneric, kasumin, Ricorum Scaevola, and Kristen Sharpe (twice!) for reviewing!

Write a review, get a response from the author – promise! :)

* * *

Hohenheim let himself be led through the house, eyes squeezed closed as Trisha – unsuccessfully trying to stifle giggles – pulled him along. "The more you amused you are, the more nervous I feel," he informed her.

He imagined her throwing her head back, hair falling around her face and catching the light, as she laughed aloud. "You'll love it, I promise." They continued on for a few more feet before she put a hand on his chest to halt him. She fussily turned and positioned him before pulling away. "Ta-dah!"

Uncertainly, he opened his eyes, and then he gasped. "Trisha," he said wonderingly. He was looking into a neatly arranged room; several empty bookcases lined the walls, and a desk sat right across from the door. After a moment of contemplation, he recognized the room as her formerly dusty and long-unused guestroom.

"It's yours, if you want it," Trisha said beside him. He turned his awestruck stare on her and she met his eyes evenly. "I'd like you to move in. You can keep all those books that're just taking up room in Pinako's basement here, and she can create that surgery she wants. And you can stay with me."

Hohenheim blinked. He hadn't found a good place to keep his books since he'd let go of that flat in Creta, seventy years ago now, but that thought was distant. "You want me to stay?" he asked instead.

She stepped forward, bringing her hands up to his shoulders. Her eyes never wavered from his. "Of course I do," she said.

* * *

The first time Trisha found the boys crawling around their father's study, she had thought little of it. They liked to explore, and Ed was too careful with books to damage anything. It was months later before she found out that they weren't simply playing in the room.

"Did your father teach you that?" she asked, examining the wooden bird and wondering how she was going to get striation marks out of the floor.

Ed's mouth puckered. "How can we learn something from someone who's never here?"

"We learned from those books," Al piped up before Trisha could do something about Ed's scowl. Her younger son gestured toward the pile that lay next to them. Trisha leaned forward to read the titles and felt her eyes widen. Before she had explained her lack of interest to him, Van had eagerly told her about his different alchemy texts, and she recognized those as some of the most difficult he owned.

"You two read those books? And understood them?" she couldn't help asking.

Al looked disheartened. Ed, doubtless the leader as he always was, turned a guilty frown on the floor. "Mostly. Did… did we do something wrong?"

"Not at all!" Trisha pushed down her surprise and smiled. "I'm going to tell everyone about this. I'm so proud!" She pulled her now-giggling sons to her, wishing more than ever for Van to return soon and see what they could do – and teach them what she could not.

* * *

Al couldn't find his brother. In the week since Mom's funeral, they had clung to one another, sleeping in the same room, neither letting the other out of his sight for longer than it took to go to the bathroom. But now, Ed had disappeared, and Al was nervous.

"Brother?" he called, wandering from the porch to the kitchen. He shivered as the screen door banged against the wall in a sudden gust of wind, and went back to close it more firmly. As he latched it, he heard another thud from the back of the house and a strangled voice shouting words he couldn't make out. _Brother_, he realized, instinctively running toward the sound.

"He didn't come!" his brother yelled, now comprehensible as Al rounded the corner to their father's study. He gaped as Ed picked up a book and tore at its pages before slamming it to the ground amidst a pile of others already ravaged. "Why didn't he—"

"Brother," Al breathed. Horror and sudden fear made his stomach clench when Ed whirled on him. His brother appeared crazed, hair wild and unkempt, face almost feral as he snarled at Al.

"What?" Ed snapped. _"What?"_

Al shrank back. Ed had been the one to teach him about treating books with respect, and he had never been scared of his brother. But Mom's death had turned the rest of the world topsy-turvy, so why should this be any different?

Ed stared at him for another minute, chest heaving as he panted, but slowly the ferocity faded from his features. He looked from Al to the ripped pages scattered around his feet and then back up. His eyes were as wide as Al's own. "Al," he said slowly, "I'm sorry. I didn't – didn't mean to…" He gulped helplessly.

Al took a small step in his direction, then another when Ed simply stood there, until he was close enough to leap into Ed's arms. "Don't do that again, Brother," he whispered. They were both trembling. "Please?"

"I won't, Al. I'm sorry." He continued to apologize as Al pulled him away from the ruined books and out of the study. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Brother," Al replied, even though it wasn't really at all. "It's okay."

THE END


	17. Survivor's Guilt

**Title: **The Sight Whereof  
**Author: **vanillavinegar**  
Rating: **T (gore, violence, descriptions of war)  
**Summary: **Maes Hughes has seen the worst humanity has to offer.  
**Warnings:** **SPOILERS** through the Ishval arc (volume 15/chapter 61). Please also note the rating.**  
Disclaimer:** _Fullmetal Alchemist _and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Hiromu Arakawa-san. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others.  
**Author's Notes:** This fic was written for prompt 136, 'survivor's guilt', at fma_fic_contest. It won third place that week. Sorry for the dearth of updates lately; I've actually caught up with all of my entries from the comm, so updates will probably slow down. Thanks to everyone for reading!

Write a review, get a response from the author – promise! :)

* * *

He had seen blood shed, a lot of it. Ishvalan, Amestrian – once out of a body, there was no difference in the blood. He knew that as well as any. Better than most. He could never hope to measure the amount of blood on his own hands.

He had seen people die in a hundred thousand different ways: bullets ripping neat holes through skulls; explosions that left more _parts_ than _bodies_; bayonets slicing through limbs; fires that melted flesh; buildings that crushed their occupants; the very earth swallowing people whole (or, worse, _not_ whole). Whether those who fell quickly in a flash of serrated knives or those who took long hours of screams to die were the worst was something he had not yet decided.

He had seen a pitiless gaze refusing to stop the slaughter, the exultation of his comrades as more of the enemy fell, and his own bone weariness reflected back at him in the eyes of others. He knew the face of evil, had witnessed more cruelty than he had believed possible, and found that goodness and mercy were scarcer than water in the desert.

It was years since he left Ishval, but still war raged in his dreams.

And yet.

He had seen the same steadfast love and warmth shining from Gracia's face from the moment he stepped off the train in Central to every morning they woke together.

He had seen Elicia take her first, wavering steps and laugh in delight at her own accomplishment.

He had seen the untiring determination glinting in Roy's eyes.

He had seen a hundred thousand acts of kindness, from a grocer waving away a poor man's bill to his neighbor's daughter adopting a homeless kitten. He recognized the bravery in Sheska's efforts to support her ill mother, the generosity embodied in Major Armstrong, the loyalty daily shown by the men he commanded.

He had seen hell, yes, and saw it anew whenever he closed his eyes. He owed a debt to every person he had seen die, to every soldier of his that he had outlived, to every Ishvalan he had killed – a debt that he was incapable of paying, a guilt that would linger no matter how long he lived.

But for all of the days he had lived since Ishval, and for all of those yet remaining to him, Maes would live and love as much as he could. He could not live for those who had died any more than he could bring them back to life, but neither could he waste the life he had. That he had survived at all was both gift and burden, and it was his duty, now, not to squander what he had been given, when so many had not.

THE END


	18. Poetry

**Title: **Song Without Lyrics  
**Author: **vanillavinegar**  
Rating: **K+  
**Summary: "**Excuse me, miss, could you spare some water for a thirsty traveler?"**  
Warnings:** **SPOILERS** for the end of the manga/_Brotherhood_. Sweet enough to give you cavities.**  
Disclaimer:** _Fullmetal Alchemist _and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Hiromu Arakawa-san. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others.  
**Author's Notes:** This fic was written for prompt 141, 'poetry', at fma_fic_contest. It won second place that week. Thanks to everyone for reading!

Write a review, get a response from the author – promise! :)

* * *

Granny had gone to visit Mrs. Smitherson (which meant she had gone to haggle over the price of tobacco in old lady Smitherson's shop in town), taking Den with her for company, and for once they were caught up with their orders, so Winry grabbed the hoe from the shed out back and set out to weed the vegetables. She'd rather have been dreaming up designs inspired by her latest _Monthly Mechanic_, but the weeding needed doing. And it would be nice to surprise Granny if she finished quickly.

She hummed as she worked, settling into an easy rhythm. It was early yet, and the heat from the sun was still just a pleasant warmth on her back and shoulders. The weeds weren't too numerous – between them, the Rockbells kept their garden in tidy shape – but it had been a couple of weeks since the weeding had last been done and there was work enough.

Winry became so focused on her task, in fact, that the approaching footsteps – irregular beats, those of someone with one leg flesh and one automail – didn't even register.

"Excuse me, miss," said a voice she knew as well as her own or Granny's; she dropped the hoe, turning around and getting an eyeful of morning sun. "Could you spare a glass of water for a thirsty traveler?"

"Ed!" she shrieked, still trying to blink away her momentary blindness. She leapt toward the voice, and she must have guessed the direction rightly because suddenly she was enveloped in a pair of strong arms. She hugged back fiercely, even as she tried to hit him on the shoulder. "You never call before you come! Why didn't you let me know, you jerk? Wait," she pushed away from him, her vision having cleared enough where she could make out the bright grin he shot at her. He was tanner than he'd been when she'd seen him last, his hair a bit longer – was he taller, too? Hard to tell from this close. "What did you do to your leg?" she demanded.

His grin flipped into a scowl. "Nothing!"

"Then why'd you come back?" she asked, still suspicious.

Ed's mouth worked for a moment before he growled and pulled her to him again, and then he was kissing her. Winry's eyes fluttered shut as she kissed him back; she had missed him, so much.

Then she realized what was happening and broke off the kiss. "Don't think you can distract me, Edward Elric!" He kissed her again. "I want to know—" And again. "—what you've done—" Again. "—and why you're here—"

"God, woman," Ed groused against her lips, a flush – irritation or embarrassment? Or maybe a bit of both? – working up his neck, "if you would just shut up, I'm trying to tell you."

When his lips found hers this time, Winry wound her arms around his neck and didn't say a word. _Ed can be such a dolt, sometimes,_ she thought, _but a sweet one._

* * *

_"There's only one way for you to tell if your love is true, young man," the bartender went on in a lecturing tone._

_Ed gave him a flat look. This had _not_ been the kind of legend he had meant when he asked the man for any that he knew._

_The bartenders in Creta, he'd quickly learned, were vast repositories for all sorts of rumors and stories, including ones about alchemy. This particular bar – still mostly empty at ten in the morning, which was why Ed had ordered tea – had looked quite seedy from the outside – usually a good sign as far as information gathering went. But now the bartender was telling him some weird love story._

Oh, well,_ Ed thought, sipping his tea, _maybe he'll tell me something good _after_ the stupid love thing.

_"They say that when you kiss your true love, you hear the music of the planets all around you," the bartender explained, propping his chin in his hands and staring into the distance dreamily._

_"What's the music of the planets?" Ed couldn't help asking._

_"They say," the bartender replied slowly, deliberately drawing the words out, "it sounds like a song without lyrics – like poetry without words."_

_Ed took another swallow of his tea. They made it too sweet out west, but he'd grown to tolerate it over the past few months. "That doesn't make any sense," he pointed out._

_"If you'd ever been in love, young man, you would understand," the bartender reproached. Ed frowned at him defensively, hoping the bar was too dark for the man to make out the red on his face. He knew he was out of luck when the bartender started to smirk. "Oh-ho, it's like that, is it?" he said, chuckling. Ed transferred his glare to his cup, shoulders hunching. "Well, the next time you see her, young man, see if you can hear the music!"_

Ed shook the memory away. That had been over a week ago, and when he'd found himself missing Winry more and more every day since, he'd wondered why he didn't do something about it. Which was why he'd found the next train bound for Amestris without so much as calling the Rockbells to let them know.

He relished the feeling of Winry warm in his arms, even coated with sweat and dirt from working outside. He had tried to listen for whatever the 'music of the planets' was, but all he could hear was Winry; shouting his name when he surprised her, whispering "I missed you" when they paused for breath, laughing at his equally soft murmur of "I love you."

_Whatever,_ he thought, mentally shrugging as Winry yanked him closer, _poetry's overrated anyway._

THE END


	19. Fracture

**Title: **Cast Offs  
**Author: **vanillavinegar**  
Rating: **K+ (mentions of blood/injuries)  
**Summary:** She had sworn to give her life for him.  
**Warnings:** **SPOILERS** for chapter 47 of the manga/_Brotherhood _episode 23 (aka, Lan Fan being a badass).  
**Disclaimer:** _Fullmetal Alchemist _and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Hiromu Arakawa-san. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others.  
**Author's Notes:** This fic was written for prompt 143, 'fracture', at fma_fic_contest. It won first place that week. Thanks to everyone for reading, and special thanks to Kristen Sharpe, Flower in the Rain, The-Sun-Princess, and silverymoon19 for reviewing!

Write a review, get a response from the author – promise! :)

* * *

Lan Fan knows pain. She has suffered injuries before, both in the service of the young master and through her own foolishness, and she is familiar with the feel of her own blood. She has been trained to recognize the difference between a fracture and a sprain and a dislocated bone at a touch.

She knows when a limb is dead.

She can't move her arm, can't control the muscles at all. It hangs uselessly from her shoulder, just as she hangs uselessly from the young master's. He is saying something, telling her to hold on, and she remembers swearing to protect him when she was barely old enough to understand the words.

_"I will give up my life for the prince, if I must,"_ she'd solemnly told her grandfather, and he had knelt to look her in the eye.

_"There are harder things to give up than one's life, granddaughter."_

"Yes," she mumbles. "Harder things."

"Lan Fan, whatever you're thinking of doing—" the prince says warningly. His head moves from left to right, searching, but there is no escape for them – for him – not as they are.

She stuffs her cowl into her mouth. She will scream – she will not be able to help it – but she can muffle it as much as she can. She twirls her kunai, aiming the blade squarely at her shoulder.

This will hurt her, she knows, but it will not break her.

She takes a deep breath.

THE END


End file.
